We were sitting on the balcony level of the University Theater, watching the second half of a choral concert that I had just finished performing in. The Latin from the song the Chamber Choral was performing spilled over the edge of our level and filled the entire theater with light rythms and sixteenth century harmony.

The girl wiped her face off on a sleeve, and shook her head. I could see that her father was quickly losing interest in the concert, and focusing on me, but I continued.

"I bet they sound just like this." I said, and her dad grinned. "Close your eyes." I suggested, and closed mine for emphasis. I peeked through my lashes to be sure she had done so, and continued. . . "See, pretend the ladies in that choir are butterflies that have been changed to human form for the night. . . like magicprincesses. The colored scarves they are wearing are what is left of their wings."

I draped my blue silk scarf over her shoulders, and led her fingers along the edges so she could feel the material that had become her makeshift wings.

"When they sing high like that. . . imagine them flying right into the sun, or landing on a pretty flower. When they sing low like they are doing now. . . Make believe that they are going home to go to bed, because they have been singing all day long and they are tired."

Her eyes were closed, and she was squinting into an imaginary sun while she concentrated. "But, I can't understand what they are saying!"

"They are singing for every sunrise, and every sunset that has ever been. They are singing for fairytale love, and flowers growing everywhere, and all sorts of green growing things. They are singing for happy moments in the shade, and icecream, and playing with friends, and rolling down hills on their sides."

"So that's what they sound like!" she said, a sort of childlike wisdom radiating from her tiny body.

She sat that way for the rest of the evening, concentrating on every detail of every piece of music. It was a solemn moment when the final echoes of the last song ceased their reverberations and there was silence, but it was a joyful moment as well. . .because we could still hear the sound made when butterflies sing.